"I don't know—hadn't thought."
"Unless you're hell-bent on sticking around here to get your head bashed in—I venture respectfully to suggest that you consign yourself to my competent care."
"Meaning—?"
"I've got a bungalow down on Long Island—a one-horse sort of a bachelor affair—and I'm going to run down there this evening and stay awhile. There's quiet, no society and good swimming. Will you come along and be my guest until you grow tired of it?"
Whitaker looked his prospective host over with a calculating, suspicious eye.
"I ought to be able to take care of myself," he grumbled childishly.
"Granted."
"But I've a great mind to take you up."
"Sensibly spoken. Can you be ready by three? I'll call with the car then, if you can."
"Done with you!" declared Whitaker with a strong sense of relief.